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If she could get the nerve to grab his ear, Deckard would have been dragged by his ear. But Abigail has a bit more sense than that. She doesn't drag Deckard per se, more like forces him to hobble beside her, away from the van and to some privacy. No one else needs to hear her screech at the older man. At some point she turns around, looking up at him from under the orange baseball cap. "Care to explain the crutch? OR why you were beating a man with it?" Arms are crossed and one foot is out more than the other as she taps it on the grass and dirt, waiting for an answer.

Deckard hobbles with as much dignity as he can muster, remaining crutch switched out from beneath one arm to better balance out the lame leg on that same side. The free hand on the opposite side is bandaged, and he has bones poking out of places bones shouldn't poke. They jut at the fit of his suit and into the coat over that. Not a good look for him, but it does compliment the sullen absence of an answer she gets once she's dragged him off far enough to start asking questions.

Abigail purses her lips when there's no answer forthcoming about what the hell happened to his leg that he's needing crutches to get along. "You can't turn it back on can you? It's now off isn't it" Making that assumption. The red head unfolds her arms pluck at the opening of his shirts, glance at his collarbone and his face. Abigails nostrils flare at the sight, all skin and bones. "You haven't been eating to take care of yourself have you

Simple questions are easier to answer, and so get answers. "It's on." Straight-forward, to the point, bandaged hand lifted in a vague desecration of scout's honor. Cross his heart. He doesn't care to clarify that switches between the two states tend to occur carelessly and/or against his will. He rankles dimly against her prying, meanwhile, pulling away as well as he can without falling over. A scooting half-step ensures that he doesn't.

'So then why are you limping" The pulling away ruffles her feathers. One question at a time it seems. She's not yelling, or hitting him, has to be a bonus yes?

"I dunno. Maybe I should touch myself." Deckard's cranky; irritable, brow furrowed and thinned mouth quick to pull sidelong into the shadow of a sneer when he shrugs his collar back down into semi-rightness. "Seemed to work out well when you tried it."

"If I do it again will it work? Will you turn it in on yourself and heal yourself?" It's a serious question, even as she stands, smaller than him, staring up with an unamused look on her face. "Because I'd do it again if it helped. You know I would Flint Deckard. I have as much invested in that gift that he's given to you, as you do now. Look at yoU! Your thin as a rail, in another week you'll be as deathly as I looked being pulled off this island. What in the heavens are you eating?!”

Oddly enough, Deckard's reaction isn't eager. It's not even particularly cheerful. In the face of such an earnest offer, he withdraws, shoulders closing in on either side of an expression that's just short of sick, or at least ill to his stomach for reasons that may or may not be related to the mostly empty state of it. "No." No, it won't work. Reproached without reproach to be reproached by, he seeks solace in sullen silence again, lifting one shoulder in a hazy shrug. "Whatever's around."

"Heavens, whatever's around? That's it? Do you even count calories? Do you know how much you need to eat, if it's being used? What to eat? Do you even care flint? It can kill you. Did you know that? It's eating you. That ability consumes you. I learned that here, on this stupid god forsaken Island. That's why you're all skin and bones. "WEre you intending to let yourself jsut wither away before asking me how to manage it?"

The redhead doens't care about the berth that he's given her as she steps forward, taking his wrist, trying to take his wrist and drag him back towards the soup van. Thank god they had soup. She could force it down his throat. She was already running plans through her head.

Deckard isn't moving quick enough to dodge any kind of grab at this point. His wrist is taken, the bony nature of the grip available there certainly nothing unusual. He's not well-equipped for literally being tugged along with only half of his crutch equation left, and so gimps awkwardly along, not answering any of her questions because…who counts calories? Aside from like…Oprah? That sounds like something Oprah would do. "I don't — look any different."

So he's a little out of practice with the whole mirror thing.

"You do. You look like a skeleton you silly silly clueless man! Not even your scruff is hiding that" She's not that unaware of his situation and she does go a little slower. "Get you some soup, then you're heading back home with me. At least there I can .. fucking feed you what you need to not die on me and keep them from finding a way to put it back in me. Because that's what you're doing, did you know that? Did you flint? If I had you x-ray vision do you think i'd be running around and not knowing what I need to know to better control it? Badgering you to know what side effects there were? If I was going to give everyone cancer if I looked at them too much? Because I would, but I don't have it, and by god i'm not going to let you die, and deny me the chance to make your life hell down the road, or to even keep me from ever having a snowballs chance in hell of getting God's gift back"

There's another unfortunate side-effect of the grab that starts sinking in after it's had a few slow seconds to gather momentum: the bottomless dragging pit in Abigail's tongue and at her thigh. Flint wasn't lying when he said the lights were on. His wrist twists beneath her hand, gently at first and then with more conviction, bandaging and all. "I'm not going anywhere. And I'm not eating Cardinal's soup. If people are hungry they should — stop fucking around and try harder." Or something more or less unreasonable. His progression from sullen to surly is predictable and familiar.

"Then I'll head back with you to the planes, and we'll get off of here and i'll take you home Flint. Not like Al wants to live with me anymore. They've been home how long and he hasn't showed up, even with his changed face? I'm paying for a two bedroom apartment and i'm alone. I can't eat all the food that I have, because it was bought for when I had an ability" Crap, that's right. Abigail lets go once she feel the warmth suffusing her face. "Don't make me find a fucking flowerpot" The former healer hisses. "Because I will."

"I'm staying here. I live here," Deckard reiterates without real feeling, content to hold his ground now that she's let go and the soup van is looming in the foreground again. "You, though. You shouldn't even be on the island, nevermind trying to drag people off of it. I don't think it's much of a stretch to assume that there are probably droves of big-eyed boys and girls who'd be more than happy to take over your absent roommate's half of the rent in exchange for occasional opportunities to 'accidentally' walk in on you in the shower." Stubborn irritation stirs acid behind the flash of his teeth. He's in a piss poor mood an feels like crap and a thousand other things he can't be bothered to bitch about. "I'm not dying. I'm just tired."

Blue eyes narrow at the roommate comment, which only causes her to step close to him, go up her toes and tilt her head upward so she can be a few inches from his face. "Why do you care if I'm on this island? Worried you'll loose another eye if someone tries to take me? Newsflash, i'm not the healer anymore. You are. I'm just some southern big mouthed girl who's giving away free soup and is jealous as hell and tore up that God gave it to you. Who can't be bothered to thank god for it or even try praying to see if that will help you use it better. Do you know what flint? I send Gabriel, all banged up, to another healer." She has freckles, this close up, very faint across the bridge of her nose.

"I'm getting evil eye'd and people in law enforcement angry at me because I wouldn't tell them who had my ability when they found out. Because I don't want them taking you in. I came to this island twice because I was worried about you. Not worried that your not doing what god intends with the gift but because I was worried about you. Worried that you weren't doing okay, that it was hurting you" Her finger pokes at his chest when she emphasizes him. "I came because you were important to me. Are important to me. Because you're worth the air you breath in and out and if I'm having a terrible time dealing with what happened, means you're having a hard time not seeing like you used to. You want to stay out here, and wither to a … blanking husk, then you go ahead and do that Flint Deckard. You can't help the people who won't help themselves first. You know where to find me. You have my numbers. When you decide to give a damn, call me or find me again. Because I'll stay off your Island." The hand is reeled back and she shifts back to on her feet.

"To think, that someone told me I should give you a chance, and give you a date."

Silence.

It's the classic Deckard response to lectures.

The hard angles of his face are turned down to meet the softer slant of hers in mute recognition of the many, many things that she has to say. No sighing, no argument, no rolling of eyes or gnashing of teeth. He watches and listens and frowns dimly down at her, stripped of the extra inches he'd need to really loom by his reliance upon the rusted crutch under his arm.

Blue eyes clean, clear and lucid in their probe of hers, breath tainted by coffee and alcohol alike, he looks a little cramped by the time she's finished, like a cat someone's tried to stuff into an overstarched miniature suit. Nothing really fits, but he lacks a turtle's ability to physically withdraw into the armor it wears and is left to look equal parts exposed and uncomfortable. Possibly a little bothered. Hard to tell when his face is worked over by distraction the way it is when he finally glances off sideways and turns to follow the lead of his glare. He still has a crutch to pick up out there somewhere.

Fine. be that way. Though she doesn't say it out loud. Just inwardly. Abigail's blue eyes pick him out, watch him turn away before she does the same thing. Back towards the soup van and the relative safety that it offers. Hands shoved deep into the back pockets of her jeans there's a can that one contained soda of some kind that finds no mercy at the heel and then toe of the former healer as it finds itself viciously punted into the back of the soup van.

Fine. Be that way.

Swing, click, brace. Swing, click, brace. Deckard puts distance between himself and the van with a quickness, shoulders hunched and bristly chin kept down at an angle that staves off any automatic temptation he might have to glance back. FINE. HE WILL BE THAT WAY.